The Briefing
by Grace O'Malley
Summary: (miniseries) A year on, the commander and the president have a routine meeting


The Briefing (BG miniseries)

by Grace O'Malley

Rating: PG

Summary:  A year on, the commander and the president have a routine meeting.

_0710_

Commander Adama paced his quarters in irritation.  He poured himself a cup of coffee, leaving her cup empty.  It was the first time she'd been late in nearly a year of the daily morning briefings she'd insisted on.  Did she think he had nothing better to do than wait for her?  He decided to give her five more minutes before heading out to begin his real work of the day.

A quiet knock came at the door.

"Come in."  

The hatch swung open, and she stepped into the room.  As always, she looked neat and pulled together.  Even if her suit was showing signs of wear, it was inevitably freshly pressed.  It might not be a uniform, but it would do.

"Good morning, Commander.  Sorry I'm late--"

"Are you late?"  He cut her off before she could explain.  "I hadn't noticed."  He poured her coffee without bothering to ask whether she wanted any, or how she took it.  The milk had run out long ago, and sugar was too precious for anything but the most special of occasions.  Coffee was scarce too, but rank had its privileges.  

"Have a seat, Madam President."  He nodded toward her customary spot on the sofa, and set her coffee cup down so hard that the liquid sloshed over into the saucer.

"Thank you."  She sat down heavily for a normally graceful woman.  

He looked at her critically.  She was a bit pale.  There were dark circles under her eyes, and her suit hung on her as if she'd lost weight.  Well, they'd all been working hard and not getting much sleep.  No surprise if the strain was showing.    

"Commander, we really need to get moving on arrangements for an election."

"And you want military personnel to act as official observers and guard against any malfeasance by civilian election officials."  It was a statement, not a question; they'd had this discussion many times before.

"Yes.  You have the only functioning infrastructure, and we need your help to build a fleet-wide civilian society."  She sighed.  "You know all this.  Why drag it out?"

"Because we're busy, President Roslin.  My people are having to do everything from flying regular reconnaissance missions and combat patrols, to figuring out how to smelt ore and manufacture weapons right here on Galactica.  We don't have time to play politics with a bunch of selfish, fractious civilians who have no discipline or common sense."

"I understand that.  I do.  But the sooner there's a cohesive civil government people can rely on...take their concerns to--a government they've helped to create and can feel a part of--the sooner you can be free of administering to their basic needs."

"Well, that sounds good, but what about the council of ships' representatives?  I thought that was the point--"

"An ad hoc talking shop of self-appointed blowhards," she snapped at him for the first time in their acquaintance.  "They're so busy trying to protect what they see as the resources and personnel belonging to individual ships, they can't even begin to discuss the bigger picture."  

Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and she looked around as if searching frantically for some means of escape.  "Damn!" she said, then made a grab for his wastebasket barely in time to vomit copiously into it.   

Without stopping to think about it, he moved to her side, and gently pulled her hair back out of the way while she continued to heave.  For the first time, he noticed silvery threads of gray, like filigree in her dark hair.

"Lords, I'm sorry," she got out between coughs and splutters.

When she finally stopped being sick, he got up without a word to bring her a glass of water and a damp cloth.  He wondered about her sanity.  She had persuaded him to quietly drop military strictures against fraternization--as long as professionalism was maintained--and to let it be known that, shortages be damned, unplanned pregnancies would be occasions for joy, not reprimand.  Still, he couldn't believe that she'd try to set some kind of example by becoming pregnant herself--at her age.  Nor did he want to contemplate who the father might be.

She wiped her blotchy face with the cloth, and gingerly sipped at the water, but didn't let the trash can get too far away.  

He sat down across from her, willing himself to ignore the sick smell.  He let his gaze flick to her middle, and as gently as he could muster, asked, "When's...?"

She looked blank at first, then shocked by comprehension of the question.  Then she laughed until tears ran down her puffy cheeks, and her coughs threatened to turn into more spasms of nausea.  

Thoroughly humiliated, Adama could only sit and wait for her to compose herself.

"I suppose it's time for you to know, though I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself."

He nodded.

"Just before I left Caprica, I was diagnosed with N-stage carcinoma of the breast.  Your doctor's been keeping me together as best he can, but there was never any real hope.  I have secondary tumors starting in my bones and lungs.  Thank the Lords it's stayed out of my brain--so far.  The chemo's a bitch, and I still don't have very long.  Now do you see why we must have an election soon?"

"Who else knows?"

She ignored his question.  "There is no more established succession remaining from the colonial government, so once I become incapacitated, the fleet could descend into anarchy unless we pave the way now."

"Who?" he insisted.

"Just Billy," she finally answered, but refused to stray any further from her own agenda.  "I'm not going to declare a successor as if I were some kind of despot, and the council is frankly not fit to appoint an appropriate president.  If you think I've been a pain in your neck, trust me, you would not want to have to deal with that Thor Br--"

"Not Lee?"

"No.  Not Lee.  Not yet.  I know I'll have to tell him soon."  She sighed and relaxed back into the cushions, as if resigned to letting the discussion take the more personal turn Adama was pushing for. 

"He's going to take this hard."

"I know.  Maybe I should have told him sooner--given him longer to adjust--but I just...couldn't."

Adama had never understood the bond between his son and this woman.  He wasn't sure whether to be proud or annoyed that she regularly sought out Lee's advice, and often took it, whereas she was apt to politely ignore his own take on matters concerning the civilian fleet.  And she'd awarded his son a presidential medal of honor for "exceptionally meritorious service" in rescuing civilian survivors--the gold on said medal having been melted down from her own jewelry.  

As for Lee, on top of his real responsibilities, he spent every spare moment accompanying her on round after round of visits to every ship in the fleet.  Talking to people, trying to assess and meet their needs; trying to equitably distribute scare resources as well as identify those individuals having skills of value to the community of survivors.  Such things might be important, but they were not Lee's responsibility.  He should have been using his crumbs of off-duty time to relax and recuperate; to meet a woman his own age; to start a family.  

"I know you don't approve," she said as if she had read his thoughts.  "But he has what it takes for public life.  He thinks fast on his feet, and people instinctively trust him--even with the hard decisions.  Not to mention the fact that he's a hero."

"Are you saying Lee should run for president?" 

"Honestly..."  She didn't meet his eyes, but looked at the wall behind him.  "I'm not sure he's ready.  But then, who is?  Were we ready for the responsibilities thrust upon us?  There are other good people out there: Megan Forsythe on _Astoria_, for example, and Paul Cunningham from _Beckman's Dream_.  And Billy, of course, is one of the smartest people I've ever met, with a tremendous grasp of administration, but his tendency to lead from the heart worries me a little."  Then she looked straight at Adama.  "I'm just asking you not to hold Lee back, if that's what he decides to do."

"He doesn't need my approval."

At that, she shot him a look that reminded him far too much of his late ex-wife.  Carefully, she started to rise.  "I've taken up my ration of your time, Commander.  I really must go.  Billy will be waiting for me.  But first--"  She bent to pick up his waste basket.  "Let me take care of that.  I didn't mean to start your morning in such an unpleasant fashion."

"Leave it," he ordered, then added more kindly, "Trust me, I've cleaned up far worse--you need to save your strength."

"All right," she conceded.  "Thank you."

He accompanied her to the hatch and pulled the heavy door open, even offering her an arm to steady herself as she stepped over the high rim.  He almost let her walk away, but something reached out and put his hand on her shoulder.  "Laura."

She turned back to look at him.

"I'm so sorry."

"I know," she said with a grim little smile.  "But it isn't your sympathy I need, Husker."  Her eyes filled with mischief at the unprecedented exchange of first names, but her voice remained completely serious.  "I need your help.  Democracy is a fragile thing; it's not enough for humans to survive as a biological species if lose what made our culture great.  We must have that election."

"Will two months be soon enough?"

She nodded.   

He had to whisper to make sure his voice didn't crack, "I'll think about it."

She shook her head in mock exasperation, but put out her hand to shake on it.


End file.
